I Heard Voldemort Sing
by Reaver's Warm Gun
Summary: Musicalverse! Following the events of AVPM, Voldemort and Quirrell are still the best of friends. But Quirrell feels... invisible. Why? Find out! Go on! I wrote a song into it and everything! So far, just a oneshot. May continue it later. Filled with Bromantic goodness!


**Quick Note:** wrote this a little while ago. I think it's one of my favourite things I've ever written. I'd like to continue it, but for now I'll call it a oneshot. If it gets a good response, I'll continue writing. If you like the aspect of the song being written in, I'll do it some more, too.  
If you are unfamiliar with **Ke$ha's song 'Mr. Watson'**, go get familiar with it. Right now. It will all make more sense...

* * *

_Wonderful._

It was the only way to describe the 'okay' that was their friendship. Despite their usual quarrelling, they were the best of friends, inseparable – though not quite in a sense as literal as it had been before. Home was wherever they went together, Heaven was all around.

To remember how this had all begun... they had been one person, and a servant and his master, too. But something had... blossomed over time. They hated the thought of being apart again. It didn't matter if one wasn't talking to the other, as long as they knew they were there.

When Voldemort had come to Quirrell that night not too long ago, they ran away together, just like that. Voldemort was barely real – a small piece of what had once been – but everything they had shared, everything they had felt was still just as real. And as he held tightly to the veil between life and death, it was Quirrell that kept him there.

They lived in the country-side now, far away from all the trouble they had cause, in a peaceful muggle city, their odd house and their very presence concealed by charms. They ventured in town occasionally, for food, or to see the latest Zefron movie.

But sometimes, they began to get stir crazy. They hardly even went outside. Sometimes they would sit together and talk about whatever came to mind. Sure, it was a little weird, but they enjoyed the other's company – perhaps more than they would care to admit.

Tonight was movie night, as was nearly every night. They had a rather huge collection of movies that they had acquired over the past year. The towering shelf next to the TV barely had the room for them all.

Quirrell sat on the edge of his cushion, leaning in towards the TV, listening intently, tears in his eyes. He ignored the noisy man rolling around impatiently beside him, eventually tumbling to the ground and hitting his head on the coffee table. Voldemort laid there for a moment, sprawled out on the floor, completely still and silent.

Finally, he sat up, deciding his companion didn't seem to care if he were dead – or at least concussed. He looked up, sighing heavily. "I don't get it Quirrell."

"W-w-what don't y-you get?" he stuttered, hurriedly wiping the tears from his eyes as he realized Voldemort was watching him carefully.

The man smiled slightly, using the coffee table to haul himself up off the ground. "Quirrell!... are you... crying?" He sat back down on the couch, turning is attention back to the television set.

Five minutes later, the floor was lost to a sea of facial tissue, the movie drowned out by the wailing of the two companions. They tried to calm themselves down a bit, and listened to the calming, yet overwhelming emotion inducing voice of Celine Dion for a moment, deciding to try to sing along. Finally, they collapsed onto the couch, unable to take it anymore.

"Why?" moaned Quirrell. "Why did he have to die? Their love was so young! So... perfect..."

Voldemort's head jerked upward suddenly, the sobbing halting altogether. He raised a brow. "What do you mean, Quirrell?! Clearly she loved him greatly, but he didn't love her."

"Blasphemy!" cried the ex-professor, clutching a pillow to his chest.

"No no no no no no no no no no." Voldemort looked at him, for a moment. "No. I mean, _really_ think about it. If he truly loved her, yadda yadda, he would come back for her in an instant. He would have walked the highway from Hell to limbo, crossed the veil of reality... Right?"

Quirrell looked at him for a moment, a smiling tugging at his lips. He pulled his knees in towards his chest so he could rest his chin on them. "You mean, like what you did? To get back to me?" he asked, hiding his face – and goofy smile – in the pillow from earlier.

Voldemort blushed slightly. They sat in terrible silence for a moment, leading to him clearing his throat. "Um, well, I guess... But don't let that get to your head," he said awkwardly, trying desperately to hide his smile as he did.

He settled further into the comforts of the couch, turning his head and laying it back down on his knees. "You know, it's not like _everyone _has the almighty powers of the Dark Lord. I don't think he could come back, no matter how much he loved her." He watched the Dark Lord get up up slowly through sleepy eyes, sighing in contentment.

"Perhaps. Or maybe he just doesn't care as much for her as I do for you. I mean, we were, like, one person, right? I watched you wipe your ass every day. That's a pretty strong bond, man." Voldemort noticed the man's dreamy expression as he was putting away the DVD. "What is it, Squirrell?"

Quirrell smiled, his cheeks flushing at the man's pet name for him. "N-nothing..." he said, shaking himself back to reality. "I'm just tired. I should go to bed." He was about to get up when Voldemort stopped him.

"It's okay, I can carry you."

"O-okay..." He was far to tired to argue with the guy. And he definitely wasn't fool enough, either. Voldemort was sure to win any sort of argument that didn't involve smarts – because that was Quirrell's thing, so he would give him those. Even if he had to use force.

The Dark Lord picked him up bridal style as though he weighted no more than a feather, which was nearly true. The man was tiny and frail, like a spring flower. He smelt like one too.

The ex-professor felt awkward trying to find anything to hold on to, and the eerie silence wasn't helping. He didn't much care for the position of his friend's right hand, though he knew it was nothing. For Pete's sake, the man had literally been attached to him just weeks prior. He had seen everything... even the embarrassing stuff. He didn't like it, but that was how it was.

Voldemort gently laid the man in his bed. He looked around, not pleased by the mess, or even the book on the bed-side table. "Quirrell... man, Twilight?" he asked judgmentally, holding up the book. He shook his head.

"I-I-I... l-like it..."

He walked around to the other side of the bed, getting in. He laid on his side, and slowly scooted backwards until he felt the warmth of the man's back, and sighed. He closed his eyes, but opened them again. "Quirrell..."

"Yes, Voldemort?" he asked sleepily

"Didn't I tell you to put away that shirt this morning?"

There was a silence.

"I'll get it in the morning, I'm tired."

"Quirrell..." he muttered warningly.

"In the morning," he said firmly. "Now... can we turn over?"

They moved in harmony, slowly turning over until Voldemort was face down, and Quirrell was looking at the ceiling. Quirrell smiled. "There, now you can't see."

"I've seen it, though... Quirrell, please, man?"

"We're not attached anymore, you can get it yourself, you know."

"No."

Silence.

"Quirrell..."

"Now you're just being childish."

"You're being childish," he mimicked in a high pitched voice.

Silence.

"Dammit, Quirrell, I'll eat our pillow!"

"NO! And you know that's an empty threat." He sighed and crossed his arms. "I've heard it a million times already."

Silence washed over them again. Voldemort turned his head so he was looking at the bleak wall, and sighed. He didn't like the feeling of knowing his only friend was mad at him. His stomach became a pit of sickness darker than his soul. He could feel the man's tossing and turning atop his back.

"Q-Quirrell..."

"WHAT?!" he cried frustratedly, having had enough of of Voldemort's foolishness.

"I just wanted to know if you would... hold my hand?" he asked in the cutest voice he could manage, making his fingers dancing at his side. He waited silently, his fingers continuing their wave-like movement. As a few minutes passed, he grew sad.

Suddenly, without a word, Quirrell reached behind him, his hand finding his friend's, their fingers interlocking, his smile lost to the darkness of the room. He laid his back, shutting his eyes tightly.

There was still an air of awkwardness that hung over them. Voldemort knew Quirrell may still be angry the next morning, but that didn't really matter now. All he could focus on the was the soft finger tracing gently circles in the palm of his hand. The soothing movement helped him off to sleep...

* * *

Voldemort sat a wooden table, amongst a number of much younger students. He noticed they were all were all female and, looking down, realized he, too, wore a girl's Hogwarts uniform, and a long, blonde wig to match. "Huh."

He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table and his chin in between his hands, and looked around at the Dark Arts classroom curiously, when a sudden urge tugged at him. Words wishing to escape.

"Oh boy, I just can wait for Dark Arts class," he said excitedly, not quite knowing what he was saying until it was said. He frowned as he said them, feeling more coming on. "It's my favourite hour of the day!"

"My favourite hour of the day," chanted the other girls in the class, causing the Dark Lord- er, Lady – to jump.

And then came the music, the heavy beat: mesmerizing. As it started, the door leading to the teacher's study flew open, revealing a rather smug-looking Professor Quirrell.

"Up on the chalkboard, I just love your wand," Voldemort sang as the professor walked to the front of his chalkboard. The girls of the class followed with a moan of 'mmm'.

"When you write notes, that twirl, twirl, twirl," he continued

"Twirl, twirl, twirl, twirl," the girls chanted in turn.

"So when you get back my pop quiz..."

"Pop quiz?" asked the girls, looking around, a little less than pleased.

"What will you think when you read," unable to control his body, he and the girls rose and – in perfect unison – kicked down their chairs, "this?"

They marched up to the smirking professor, Voldemort leading the pack.

"Professor Quirrell I want to get with you," he sang.  
"I won't tell a soul what we're gonna do,  
Want to get my hands in your khaki pants  
Teacher, teacher, what'cha gonna do?"

"Teacher what'cha gonna do?" the girls repeated.

"'Cause I am coming on to you."

The group twirled around their teacher as the music played, until they suddenly all turned, reaching out to grab hold of him. He stood, unfazed, at the centre of the rabid pack of girls – and Voldemort – as they grabbed him and screamed his name as though he were Zefron at a movie premier.

"Ha ha ha ha ha!" he laughed to the beat, folding his arms over his chest.

The girls redistributed themselves throughout the classroom, performing their choreography perfectly. The sight was really something.

Voldemort approached the professor and began circling him slowly. "Can't put my finger on what's so sexy," he picked up in his raspy voice, dragging a finger along the man's jaw line.

"So sexy!" the girls swooned.

"And why I want you in my bed," he practically purred.

"Or on your desk!" cried the back-up, as the professor firmly placed a hand on the man's chest and pushed him down onto the cold wood of his desk.

"Is it your power, your authority?" Voldemort grabbed his tie and used it to pull him towards him, so their faces were inches apart. "Or for the thrill of being so, so bad?" he asked, extending his neck so that their lips gently brushed, but pushed him away again, leaving them the professor unsatisfied.

"So bad..." the girls moaned as Voldemort got up off the desk again.

"Can I please see you after class?" Quirrell sang in his booming voice, adding a sparkling smile.

"There is something that I have to ask," was the other man's response-in-song. He and the other girls giggled. "Professor Quirrell I want to get with you  
I won't tell a soul what we're gonna do," he held a finger to his lips.

"Want to get your hands in my khaki pants," Quirrell cried as Voldemort grabbed him by the belt-buckle.

"Teacher, teacher, what'cha gonna do?"

"Voldy, what'cha gonna do?" Quirrell sang in unison with the girl's 'Teacher, what'cha gonna do?', smirking suggestively. "Cause I am coming on to you."

The music ended abruptly, the dancers' final step to the beat over-exaggeratedly. Their arms flew out in a 'ta-dah'-like stance, and then held it.

"Come and get it," Voldemort muttered, leaning in.

Quirrell grabbed the man firmly by the shoulders, pulled him towards himself, their lips colliding full-force. He tasted surprisingly of... pillow.

"I said, come and get it!" Voldemort yelled, his impatience beginning to show in his voice. Quirrell sat up in bed and groaned.

* * *

The two men ate the breakfast Voldemort had made in silence. The Dark Lord looked up from his food occasionally, searching his friend for a sign of any life. At least some appreciation for the food would be nice, he thought.

Once they finished, he took the dishes and put them in the sink, unaware of the ex-professor's eyes that followed him. He went over to his chair and picked up a magazine, flipped it to a random page, and began reading.

Quirrell heard a sad melody playing on that mystical, elusive piano that seemed to follow him wherever he went. It resembled the song from before, though it was slower.

"Now I know it's a fantasy yours," he picked up sadly,  
"And you know...

"You know..." Voldemort began, never looking up from his magazine.

"...it's a fantasy of mine  
So why waste time?  
Let's do this thing tonight."

"Voldemort, I want to get with you"

"'This guy says that 'he wants to sleep with me'..." He was quoting something now, but Quirrell couldn't bring himself to listen.

"I won't tell a soul what we're gonna do."

"'I swear, I swear!'" He continued reading.

"Want to get your hands in my khaki pants  
Voldy, Voldy, what m'I gonna do?  
'Cause I couldn't ever come on to you."

He wandered out through the kitchen and out into the bleak backyard. He could see, in the distance, muggles going on with their daily lives, but he knew nobody could see him. He felt invisible at times, especially to his best friend. Sometimes he felt as though he hardly paid attention to him, which sort of seemed rediculous when he thought about it. But the fact that he never noticed... or even thought...

The sad melody finished, and it picked up again to what it was before. "Voldemort I want to get with you!" he sang, as he lept out onto the dying grass of the yard. "Haven't told a soul, but I'm going to!  
We were once great pals, but we're gonna be more!  
Voldy, Voldy, what'cha gonna do?  
Cause I might be in love with you!" His voice faltered and cracked halfway through the last line, and the mysterious music ceased, but he still stood in near shock of what he'd just said. He hadn't really thought about it – it just sort of... came out. The words tasted strange on his tongue. He repeated them to himself softly, relishing how right they somehow felt. "I might... be in love with you."

Well_, __shit._


End file.
